


The Not-So-Great Battle of 1515 (or 1516, 1517,1518...)

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 05:25:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4864718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara meets a King. The Doctor is jealous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Not-So-Great Battle of 1515 (or 1516, 1517,1518...)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not saying this is good. In fact, I'm saying this is very not good. A few small sections came to me and then I had weave them together or throw away my desire to write.
> 
> Enjoy, if you can. It's only a drabble.

“Horse. New, this. Prefer walking. Tad-… I’ve fought Cybermen. Can I say scary?” Clara muses upon her choice of horse, eyes wide with panic and just the tiniest bit of irritation. She’s using the voice the Doctor, long ahead on his feet, can’t bear: The Lecture Tone.  
“You rode a horse in 1963!”  
“You took me to a fete!”  
With his wild eyebrows furrowed down over his narrowed eyes, the Doctor is the perfect picture of a husband tired of attempting reason with his wife. That said, his reason would be quite pointless…

They pass a brook, and Clara remembers. A long-forgotten fire; flapping birds escaping through the layers of trees; the Doctor fighting the dark forest floor. She remembers. She remembers to remember. She remembers to write this down, every detail, so that such wonders will not surpass the great aspect of danger on their journeys.

The brunette is busy, lost in thought, when the forest appears to begin crumbling down around them. There’s running and clattering and chaos – so much so that poor Bobbin bucks. The muddy ground would be a match for her shoes, certainly, but now there’s a distinct smell of faeces about her.  
“…Doctor!” Her screech serves to send the wildlife away. When the aforementioned Doctor doesn’t rush to her side, she has to pull herself up and out of the sticky mess.  
“Medical assistance, dear maiden?” a mysterious voice questions, laden with amusement. The English teacher sets her gaze upon him, at least she hopes it’s a man, tentatively - just in case.  
“I think you will find that I am quite well, sir.” Someone gasps. The grand gentleman, covered in all sorts of splendid material and gold, only gives her a charming smirk.  
“…His Majesty has been advised,” by the stern bloke speaking, it seems, “to leave this young wench.”  
“Wench?” Clara gasps, until a second sharper intake of breath has her getting to her feet. “Majesty. You. King, possibly. Royalty, maybe. Smelly, definitely.”  
You really need to sort this panicky listing syndrome.  
“What was that last one?”  
“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. Forgive me, Your Majesty, but what did you say your name was?”  
“You don’t know?”  
The companion of a very absent time traveller knocks her fist against her head. “Oh, I suffered quite a bang on my way down…”  
“Henry,” he states proudly.  
“…Which one would that be?” Head tilting, smile coy. Always best to add a bit of flirting when you’re being incredibly rude.  
“The Eighth.”

The ‘rock star’ Time Lord chooses the most inopportune moment to stride back along to Clara, what with her overcoming the shock of meeting King Henry the Eighth in a dress that should look green, not brown.  
“Ah, visitors?”  
Having been treated with more respect than perhaps due, Clara jumps when all manner of weapons are aimed at her friend.  
“No, no!”  
They go down.  
“Father?”  
“I’m not old enough to be her father!” The Scot exclaims indignantly.  
The swords, spears and bows return.  
“Husband?”  
The Doctor wrinkles his nose and holds his head up proudly. Wishful thinking?  
“Friend! And, let’s be honest, you’re probably married, so!”  
“Clara,” he starts, stepping closer now that the threat has gone, “should I retrieve my spoon?”  
"Oh, dear Doctor, I doubt that we will be needing spoons for this meeting!" She grits her teeth.  
"Are you-"  
"Doctor..."  
"I am the King," Henry interrupts, almost helpfully.  
"I am a Lord of Time - I don't go on about it."  
Any comment made for him to shut up is ignored.  
"A Lord of Time. How curious. Your friend here-" He gestures to the young woman.  
"Clara," she adds.  
"-is your-"  
"Carer," she grumbles.  
"I see. Do I have your permission, Sir, to return to the castle with 'Clara'?"

The ensuing fight is one of such epic proportions on the Time Lord's part that the brunette is nearly literally blown away. It's such a rush, such a dangerous rush, and it passes her by surprisingly swiftly. She will later recall taking cover behind a tree as her good friend swishes his sonic screwdriver about and yells on in his furious Scottish brogue. Above all, she will recall the running - but when does she not? Her blood pumping through her veins, cold yet burning, and her breath steady but fast...

Later, when Clara is sinking into the squidgy brown stuff on their way 'home', she grins up and over at the taller man.  
"Jealous?"  
"Of a bloke in a floppy hat?"  
"Oh, I don't know. You seemed protective," she hums, Bobbin nodding naturally at her side.  
"You seemed scared!" He bites back.  
"...Idiot."  
"Woman."  
"Is that an insult?" Clara slaps his arm.  
"No," his devilish smile melts her heart, "I thought we were making observations."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm rusty. Give me a break.


End file.
